The only real relationship I’ve ever had was with Louis’s biological father. A love affair that lasted nearly two years. But an impossible relationship. He doesn’t know he’s a father. I’ve never tried to find out what became of him. Louis has asked me countless times about his dad, my mother has asked me countless times about Louis’s father. She’s come close to guessing, but I have always refused to say any more. I preferred a simple, exclusive mother–son relationship to an impossible triangle. I chose the broken family rather than the blended-family option.

*

On the evening of the eleventh day, I was called into the family room by the senior consultant. Alexandre Beaugrand was aptly named; he was the hospital heart-throb, with his carefully combed, on-trend haircut and killer smile. In other circumstances, I’d have welcomed a tête-à-tête with him. But his expression was grave. And we were in a room whose decor was too garish. To be honest, I was terrified. I sat down, unable to speak, staring at the floor, my arms folded, biting my lip, fists clenched. Everything inside me had shut down.

Then the doctor explained. Slowly. Choosing his words judiciously. My world fell apart completely. Louis was showing no signs of consciousness. The medical team was very concerned. I’m no longer sure of his exact words. Louis was in what is called a vegetative state. What did that mean, precisely? That he was breathing, that some reflexes were working, that the electroencephalograms showed signs of brain activity. Be clear, for fuck’s sake! I started to lose my cool. He kept his. He must be used to dealing with parents at breaking point. What he meant was that the graph wasn’t flat, so they couldn’t declare him brain-dead, but they had observed a sort of anarchic background noise, which meant that Louis’s neurons showed a totally illogical activity. His condition was still life-threatening. We were going to have to carry on waiting.